The Last Game
by dr. kitten
Summary: A Rogue Nation AU where Brandt is taken instead of Benji. With his friend's life and sanity on the line, Ethan must do all he can to prevent a tragedy – and heal in the aftermath. Explores dark themes, see warnings inside. EthanxBrandt. Main story is now complete, but I will continue to update periodically with independent one-shots. :)
1. Chapter 1

**The Last Game**

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 **So, I've had this story floating around in my head since I first watching Rogue Nation about a week ago. I was struck by how creepy Lane is during the scene where he kidnaps Benji, and since I'm a horrible person, I thought: what if he was even creepier, and it was Brandt instead of Benji? So, I wrote this.  
**

 **Before we start, there's a whole slew of warnings I have to get out of the way. This is not a pretty fic! It gets very dark, with heavily implied male-on-male rape and psychological torture. There's also some Brandt x Ethan, if you want there to be. I've never really written anything like this before, so be gentle in the comments, please! I understand if the subject matter does not appeal to you. However, I'd like to make it clear that this isn't meant to be torture porn or to appeal to anyone's fantasies. That's why I'm avoiding writing any graphic sex. It's intended to be more of a psychological exploration of the human psyche, and the good (and evil) that we're all capable of.**

 **Okay, if I haven't lost you yet, I hope you enjoy the story, and would love to hear your thoughts! This won't be a very long fic, and I'll try to update regularly. Thanks for reading!**

 **\- Dr. Kitten :)**

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 _"Nur für mich bist du am Leben_  
 _Ich steck dir Orden ins Gesicht_  
 _Du bist mir ganz und gar ergeben_  
 _Du liebst mich denn ich lieb dich nicht_

 _Du blutest für mein Seelenheil_  
 _Ein kleiner Schnitt und du wirst geil_  
 _Der Körper schon total entstellt_  
 _Egal erlaubt ist was gefüllt_

 _Ich tu dir weh_  
 _Tut mir nicht leid_  
 _Das tut dir gut_  
 _Hör wie es schreit_

 ** _You're only alive for me_**  
 ** _I pin medals on your face_**  
 ** _You are utterly devoted to me_**  
 ** _You love me because I don't love you_**

 ** _You bleed for the salvation of my soul_**  
 ** _A little cut and you're turned on_**  
 ** _Your body already completely disfigured_**  
 ** _Whatever, anything goes_**

 ** _I hurt you_**  
 ** _I'm not sorry_**  
 ** _It does you good_**  
 ** _Listen to it scream."_**

 _\- Rammstein_  
 _"Ich Tu Dir Weh"_

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" _Open your eyes, Agent Brandt."_

Will ignored the voice, preferring to feign unconsciousness until he got his bearings. He was seated in a (rather uncomfortable) chair, restrained at the wrists and ankles. There were two – no, three – other people in the room, one of whom was unmistakably Solomon Lane, the criminal mastermind responsible for his presence here. Will felt twin jolts of anger and fear twining through his chest, pulling his muscles tight. He struggled to relax. _Don't let him see._

"I know you're awake, Brandt," continued Lane in a soft, almost friendly tone. "Or would you rather I call you Will, as Ethan does?"

The sound of his friend and leader's name on Lane's lips was unbearable. Will twitched, then let his head loll to the side, trying to pass it off as a muscle spasm. It wouldn't be too unrealistic for him to have one; he could still feel the burn in his side where they had tased him, though the prongs had been removed from his flesh.

 _Concentrate, Brandt!_ Ethan's voice thundered through his foggy brain. _What are your injuries?_

Will took careful stock of his body. Aside from the lingering pain from the taser, he was unharmed, but he was under no illusion that that would not be the case for long. He had been taken for one reason, and one reason only: to convince Ethan to give up the ledger. He was a hostage, a bargaining chip, currency in human form, and he knew that Lane would not hesitate to do whatever it took to force Hunt into making the deal. If that included breaking one of his best agents, well then … the Syndicate leader would probably enjoy every bloody minute of it.

 _Memory check!_ insisted his mental Ethan. _How did you get here? What's the last thing you remember?_

The airport. They had cornered Ilsa Faust at Heathrow, determined to use her to get to Lane, only to find out that Lane had already hijacked that idea. And Will had been the first to realize their mistake, thanks to the gun suddenly pressing up against the small of his back, and the voice that hissed in his ear, "Don't make a sound unless you want to see them all die, right now."

It had been an audacious grab, relying entirely on the size and chaos of the crowded environment, and on Will's decent nature, and it proved that Lane was desperate. He was running out of time, up against the wall with nowhere to turn, and Will didn't like it. Nothing was more dangerous than a cornered beast cut off from escape.

Hands abruptly seized either side of his face, and he felt hot breath on his skin, alarmingly close. Lane's forehead pressed against his in a grotesque parody of intimacy. The other man's skin was vaguely moist, clammy almost. Will reluctantly cracked open his eyes, squinting to keep Lane in focus.

"This doesn't have to be difficult, you know," the former agent murmured. "I am a reasonable man, Will. Help me, and I'll help you. I could offer a lot to a man such as yourself."

"Stop talking and just get to the torture already," replied Will, aiming for apathy.

Lane chuckled, and it was undoubtedly the creepiest sound Will had ever heard. A shiver ran up his spine and he shuddered in spite of himself, wanting nothing more than to jerk his face out of the terrorist's grasp. He forced himself to stay still as Lane's hand left his cheek and trailed down his neck and chest to fist in his belt.

"Oh, I'm not going to torture you, Will," he said, still laughing. "I have a great admiration for perfection, and you are … perfect." A slight tug at his waist emphasized the word. "No. No, there will be no torture. I have much better uses for you."

He leaned forward without warning, gripping Will's hair and tugging his head to the side to expose his neck. Lane's mouth closed over the sensitive skin, teeth pressing against veins and tendons, tongue flicking out to soothe the bite. Will sat frozen, paralyzed with horror at the turn this interrogation had taken. He was unsure if Lane was serious or simply fucking with him, but either way, it was bad.

"Ethan's gonna kill you," he ground out, only prompting another repulsive chuckle.

"I'm looking forward to it." Lane released him and stepped back, resting his hands on his hips as he surveyed his helpless captive. He nodded in satisfaction. "Get him ready."


	2. Chapter 2

**The Last Game**

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 **Thanks to Kira2127 for being the first to favorite! Hope you all enjoy the new chapter! A warning, though ... this one includes the pseudo-rape scene ... it's not graphic, but please skip if this is a trigger for you!**

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Chapter Two

Ethan Hunt ground his teeth together in frustration. His temper was perilously close to its breaking point, and the sound of Benji's fingers rattling away on the keys of his MacBook Air wasn't doing him any favors. He took a deep breath, then another, and tried to remind himself that losing his cool now wasn't going to help get Brandt back.

 _Will,_ said the nasty little voice inside his head that loved to torment him. _His name is Will. You're only calling him Brandt to try and gain some emotional distance, so this isn't quite so crippling to you. Pathetic, Ethan. Really pathetic._

"What's your progress, Benji?" he demanded.

"Give me a chance, Ethan!" protested the techie. "It's been barely ten minutes since you last asked me."

"Ten minutes is too long," Ethan snapped, knowing that he was being unfair but unable to help himself. Benji lowered his head and typed even faster.

"I'm trying, okay? Look, I'm worried too, but I can't work miracles, you know. I'm not God."

"Could'a fooled me."

 _Thank God for Luther,_ Ethan thought. He rested his head against the wall behind him and closed his eyes. Out of all of them, Luther was the only one who hadn't panicked when the blurry video feed showed Will being forced into a car, and the camera had panned up to the rugged face of Janik Vinter. That sickening little wink the Bone Doctor had given made Ethan's heart leap with rage, but Luther had simply put a firm hand on his shoulder and said, "They're not gonna kill him, Ethan. They need him alive, or they don't get the disk."

That was the problem, though. They needed him alive, but they also needed Ethan to believe that he was in danger, or the threat was useless. Not to mention the sensitive information that Brandt – that _Will_ had access to. He was the mission coordinator, the brilliant analytical mind behind the majority of their successes as a team.

And Ethan just _had_ to have a stupid infatuation with him.

And it was just an infatuation, nothing more. A ridiculous crush, admiration gone wrong, an attraction he just couldn't shake. There was nothing sexual about it, he told himself. It wasn't men in general that he felt these unwanted desires for. He just liked Will as a person. He was funny, smart, charismatic … good-looking. Ethan could admit that, that he found Will handsome. So what? What was wrong with that?

Cursing softly, he banged the back of his head repeatedly against the wall, causing Benji to look up in alarm. He waved a dismissive hand. The fact remained, no matter how much he wished he could deny it, that Will was far more important to him than he should be. For a moment, he toyed with the idea that Lane somehow knew, that his choice of Will was more than random luck. But that was impossible. Ethan himself hadn't known until six months ago, the last time they had spoken, the day the IMF was dismantled. When the call had ended, he had clutched the phone to his ear and stared off into space, a sudden pain in his chest that had nothing to do with his bullet wound.

 _Our last mission. Make it count._

"Oh, oh my God, Ethan, I got something!" Benji didn't sound nearly as excited as he should have. There was terror in his voice instead, and Ethan's heart sank.

"What? What is it?"

"A … a video. Mailed directly to me. It's … I think it's from Lane."

"Play it," Ethan ordered, springing upright and jogging across the room to lean over Benji's shoulder, hands braced on his knees. Luther joined him more slowly.

With trembling hands, Benji started the feed, and within seconds, Ethan knew he was going to have to commit murder. There was no way Lane was walking free after this. He clenched his hands, fingers digging into flesh, and made himself watch.

The recording device had been placed on a table, and Will's face was only inches away from it, the rest of his body laid out in the background, disproportionately sized as a result of the fisheye lens. He was on his stomach, chin pressed against the wood, a gag in his mouth. Ethan couldn't help but notice that he was shirtless.

There was a blurry figure in the background, moving around. A manicured hand intruded into the camera's field of vision, adjusted it slightly, and withdrew. It returned a few moments later to stroke down the side of Will's neck and take his shoulder in a rough grip. Will grimaced and screwed his eyes shut.

The video had no sound, but none was needed to convey exactly what was happening. The expression on Will's face was enough, the way he flinched with an impact every few seconds. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, and Ethan felt a wave of intense nausea pass over him.

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh God," Benaji babbled frantically. "Ohh, God, why are they doing this?"

"To hurt us," Ethan said. His voice was as cold and hard as stone, but inside he was a wreck.

"I can't watch this!" Benji cried, and spun away to grab a nearby wastebasket, heaving violently. The sour smell of vomit hit Ethan's nose, and he knew he should comfort his friend, but he could not tear his eyes away from the atrocity being carried out in front of him. To Brandt. To Will, to _his_ Will.

Luther reached past him and switched off the monitor. "That is some fucked-up shit," he said quietly. "Please tell me you're going to get that guy, Ethan. Tell me you're going to get him good."

"Oh, I'm going to get him," Ethan vowed. He raised a shaking hand and scrubbed it over his face. "I'm going to get him," he repeated. "I'll hit him so hard and fast he won't know _what_ happened to him. I'll make him regret fucking with me, with my team."

Benji was still emptying his stomach. Luther patted the techie on the back. "Good," he said. "You hold onto that anger. You think about _that_ , how you're gonna get him. You don't think about …" He gestured to the blank screen, unable to finish the sentence.

Ethan nodded, but there was no conviction behind the movement. It wasn't going to be that easy. He couldn't just _forget._ Not after what he'd just seen.

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 **Feedback would be greatly appreciated! :)  
**


	3. Chapter 3

**The Last Game**

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 **Wow, thank you guys so much for the support! I've jumped to three faves and two follows! I especially want to thank genbo for reviewing. You gave me the inspiration to finish this chapter today! :)**

 **I swear that the view-counter is broken, though ... 'cause it insists no one has seen this story. :/**

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Chapter Three

The plaza was crowded with people – tourists, romantic couples, families on vacation – but Ethan had no trouble singling out Ilsa. She was sitting at a table by a potted palm, the lights strung overhead giving her skin a soft glow. Beside her was a hunched form wrapped in a heavy coat.

Ethan's heart skipped a beat.

 _Will._

He approached rapidly, schooling his face into blankness. He was sure that Lane would be watching, and he couldn't afford to show how shaken he was.

"So," said Ilsa. "You came." Her face, much like Ethan's, was a study in non-emotion, but her eyes told a different story. Her eyes said, _I'm so sorry._

Ethan ignored her, focusing on Will instead. The agent had his head down, refusing to make eye contact. There was a wire in his ear, no doubt linked directly to Lane.

"Brandt, you okay?" Ethan asked.

"Yeah," Will replied. His voice was robotic. There were no marks on his face, no sign that he had undergone any trauma, but Ethan knew better. The marks were there, they just weren't visible to the naked eye.

"Let's cut to the chase," Will said. From the halting way he spoke, as though his words were waiting for his brain to catch up, Ethan guessed that Lane was feeding him lines. "You hand over the disk, and once Miss Faust confirms that it is indeed unlocked, as you promised, I will deactivate the bomb strapped to Mr. Brandt's chest, and the pair of you can walk away from here scot free."

Ethan shook his head. He's seen the men Lane had stationed throughout the crowd, Vinter among them. The disk was the only thing keeping him alive, and by extension, Will and Ilsa. The moment that Lane got his hands on it, they were worth less than nothing.

"I have a better idea," he said. "Why don't you let Brandt go _now_ , and then I'll give you the disk."

"You seem to think you have some bargaining power over me, Mr. Hunt," said Will, still in that same dead tone, "but you could not be further from the truth. You have less than a minute before the timer on this bomb runs out, and when it does, every single person in this courtyard is dead. Is that what you really want in your last moments on this earth, Mr. Hunt? To know that you are responsible for all their deaths? Give me the disk."

"I _am_ the disk," Ethan countered. "I memorized the entire contents before I destroyed the hard copy. If you kill me, you lose it forever. If you kill Brandt or Ilsa, I will shoot myself in the head, and you lose it forever. Deactivate the bomb and let them go, and I'll allow your men to take me hostage. You want the information on the file? The Bone Doctor's going to have to _beat_ it out of me."

"You're bluffing," said Will. "No one could have memorized all those numbers in only a few hours."

"You think so?" Ethan allowed a confident smile to spread across his face. "Bet your future on it."

Will's face lifted at last, his eyes locking with Ethan's. "How did you like my little video?" he asked, his voice choked and tight. "Not bad, if I do say so myself, though the quality is a little poor. I did so enjoy getting acquainted with Agent Brandt. I learned so much about him, you see. How he looks when he's hurt, when he's ashamed, what sounds he makes-"

"You bastard!" Ethan spat. "Don't you make him say those things! Why don't you come out here and talk to me in person, Lane? Stop hiding behind an earpiece."

But the next words out of Will's mouth stopped him cold. "But I already have, Mr. Hunt. I'm right next to you. Can't you see me?"

Wildly, he jerked his head around, but there was no one nearby. He turned back to see Will staring at him with a strange look in his eyes. A ghastly smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he tilted his head to one side, blinking slowly in a way that set alarm bells ringing in Ethan's head.

"You …" he gasped. "You're not Brandt."

"Very good, Mr. Hunt. I was wondering when you would catch on." Will's look-alike reached up and peeled away the flesh at the corner of his jaw. With a tug, his entire face came away, the visage that Ethan held so dear reduced to crumpled silicon. Beneath was Solomon Lane.

In that moment, Ethan lost control, lunging forward to fasten his hands around Lane's neck. Ilsa dived forward, intercepting him and sending them both tumbling to the ground. Within seconds, she had her forearm across his windpipe and her knee digging into his groin.

"Use your head!" she hissed into his ear. "If you do anything to him, they'll kill your friend!"

"Is Brandt even alive?" Ethan muttered, failing to keep the misery out of his tone.

Ilsa nodded once, brusquely. "Yes, but he won't be for long if you don't play your cards right." Raising her voice so that Lane could hear her, she said, "I'm surprised at you, Ethan. Surely you didn't think that you were the only one who had the access to mask technology."

"This was Ilsa's idea," Lane drawled. "Her modest way of proving her loyalties once and for all. I'm so proud of her."

Ethan snarled at him in wordless rage.

"You know," said Lane, "I think I will take you up on your offer. I'm sure Agent Brandt could use the company." Rising, he gestured for his men to come forward. They threaded through the crowd, forming an ever tightening circle.

 _Like a noose around my neck,_ Ethan thought.

He brought his right wrist to his mouth so he could speak into the mic hidden in his sleeve. "Gretel, this is Hansel. Change of plans. Do you copy?" He desperately hoped that his teammates would get the reference, the only warning that he could give them about the plan that was slowly forming in his agile mind.

" _What?"_ Benji's voice crackled through the intercom. _"Ethan, what are you talking about? Do you have Brandt? What's going on?"_

"Negative," he said. "Sorry, guys. I know I promised that they wouldn't take me alive, but it looks like that's the only way. Hansel out."

Vinter had reached him by this time, and was cuffing his hands behind his attack, making no attempt to be gentle. His earpiece and mic were removed and crushed underfoot. As the Bone Doctor led him away, with an escort of goons on either side, he could hear Lane behind him addressing a crowd of curious onlookers.

"It's all right, people. We are plain-clothes police officers. See my badge? This man in an international criminal."

As he was hustled past a couple eating dinner, Ethan stumbled and bumped up against their table.

"Sorry," he said, flashing them a charming smile. Vinter dragged him away, but he kept his smirk, feeling hopeful for the first time since Will had been taken. In his hands was a small, hard object, which he quickly dropped into his back pocket: a smartphone. They would take it from him when they searched him upon reaching Lane's hideout, but by then it wouldn't matter.

The trail of breadcrumbs had been laid. All Benji and Luther needed to do was follow it.

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 **Hope you all enjoyed! Next chapter will feature Will and Ethan's reunion. Reviews are always appreciated!  
**


	4. Chapter 4

**The Last Game**

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 **By now, I guess you all should know what to expect from this story, but just in case ... trigger warning for more of Lane's creepy sexual tortures.**

 **Also, thanks to genbo and lunafly123 for your reviews!**

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Chapter Four

Ethan was bundled into the back of a blacked-out van parked on a nearby side street and driven for upwards of half an hour, though he guessed by the number of left turns that they were regularly doubling back to confuse any pursuers. At last he was unloaded in a dimly-lit alley and from there immediately taken inside a nondescript brick building and up a flight of stairs. There he was frisked, his pocket knife, wallet (with a false ID and fake credit cards), and stolen smartphone were confiscated, and he was stripped of his shirt and chained up in much the same position he had found himself in months before, when he was last in Lane's custody. He kept his eyes open, hoping to catch a glimpse of Will, but his friend was nowhere to be seen. The thought that Will could be being held at a different location occurred to him, but he chose not to dwell on it. What mattered now was surviving the torture that he was sure would come.

It was brutal, but no more so than he had been expecting. Vinter worked him over well, asking a few questions but mostly just beating him. There was an extra maliciousness in the blows, which Ethan attributed to the man's frustration at losing him before.

Eventually, he blacked out, only to wake an undetermined amount of time later to the rather pleasant sensation of a cool, damp rag sponging the back of his neck. He groaned and opened his eyes to see Ilsa.

"How are you?" she asked in an undertone.

"Been … better," he croaked.

"I'll bet. I'm sorry, Ethan. I asked to be the one to handle your interrogation, but Lane wouldn't trust me after what happened last time. Would you like some water? We have a few moments before they come back."

Ethan nodded, and she held a cup to his lips, tilting it ever so slightly so he could drink. "Brandt?" he mumbled hoarsely.

"He's here," Ilsa confirmed. "I … I did my best to take care of him, Ethan, for your sake, but … whatever Lane did to him really messed with his head."

 _She doesn't know,_ Ethan thought. He asked, "Is he alright?"

"Not really. I took a risk and snuck in to see him, and even told him I was your ally and that I would help him, but he didn't even look at me. He didn't _look_ injured, but …" She trailed off, and before Ethan had a chance to ask any more questions, the door abruptly slammed open and Lane entered the room. Ilsa stepped away from him, snapping to attention, her eyes fixed straight ahead.

"Agent Hunt," said Lane, enunciating every syllable individually for maximum effect. "You've been very reticent with us. Vinter was so certain that he could break you, but I knew that you'd require something a little more … stimulating … to make you talk." He snapped his fingers at Ilsa. "Leave us."

She did, striding away without a backwards glance, and Ethan wondered grimly if he was about to endure the same fate as Will, serving the whims of a perverted madman. But Lane did not touch him. Instead he nodded to someone out of Ethan's sight and said, "Bring him in."

Two men entered, and slumped between them, his feet dragging on the floor, was Will. Ethan's breath caught at the sight, and his broken ribs gave a painful twinge.

"Agent Brandt," Lane said, "I've brought someone to see you." Will twitched at the sound of his voice but kept his eyes down. The men carrying him brought him over directly in front of where Ethan was chained and set him on his feet. He stared at the floor, swaying slightly.

"Brandt," Ethan said softly. "Brandt, look at me. It's going to be okay. I've got this. Trust me."

"You're wasting your time, Hunt," said Lane. "He's never going to trust you again. I've made sure of that."

"Brandt-" Ethan tried again, but the words of encouragement died on his tongue. Will's lips were trembling slightly, and he pressed them firmly together as though he was trying to keep Ethan from seeing, and he still wouldn't look up, and _oh Jesus,_ his belt was undone, and Ethan wanted to kill someone – _anyone_ – for hurting him like this.

"It's your fault that this happened to him," Lane continued, stepping up to stand just behind Will, so close that they were almost touching. He raised his hands and ran them up and down Will's bare sides. The agent visibly tensed. Lane's gentle, profane touch moved to his chest, combing through the small patch of hair between his pectorals, trailing down his stomach to his navel and even lower, fondling and groping. Ethan thought he was going to be sick and bit his lip until blood seeped into his mouth.

"Let him go, you sick fuck!" he growled.

"Give me the file, Hunt," Lane replied. Gripping Will's hips, he thrust forcefully against him from behind. A small whimper, barely audible, worked its way past Will's lips. Ethan struggled violently against his restraints, bucking and kicking in a vain attempt to free himself, but they had learned a lesson from the last time. The cuffs on his ankles were anchored to the floor, so he couldn't lift his feet more than a few inches.

"Stop it," he panted, breathing hard. "Don't touch him."

" _The file."_ Another thrust, another awful groan from Will. He was sweating heavily, eyes rolling in his head. He looked as though he was about to pass out.

"I'm going to fucking kill you, Lane!" Ethan shouted. "I'll tear your fucking head off with my bare hands. Let him go, right now!"

"So stubborn." Lane shook his head with mild regret, as though he was a teacher, and Ethan a student who had failed a simple test. "You leave me no choice, Mr. Hunt."

"What-"

"You, on your knees." Lane placed his hands on Will's shoulders and shoved him into a kneeling position. "Open your mouth."

Will clenched his teeth and shook his head, the first sign of defiance he had shown since being brought into the room. Ethan felt relieved, despite the gravity of the situation. He'd been afraid that Will was completely broken.

But then Lane bent down and whispered in his ear, and the last bit of fight drained from his face, leaving him sickly pale. His lips parted slightly, enough for Lane to get his fingers inside and force his jaws apart.

"Good boy," he said. "Just like you're at the dentist. That's right." Turning, he called, "Vinter, come here. Agent Brandt is going to do something for you."

" _No,"_ Ethan whispered. Then louder, "No! No, don't! I'll give you the file, I'll tell you everything, just _don't._ "

Lane turned away from Will and walked up to Ethan, a horrendous smile quirking the corners of his lips. "I knew you would see reason," he murmured. Ethan wanted to spit in his face, but didn't dare, not with Will still kneeling there, hunched in on himself like a wounded animal.

"Take him away," Lane ordered Vinter, but before the Bone Doctor could comply, there was a soft _thump_ as Will fainted, slumping to the side. Vinter sneered, hoisting the smaller man effortless off the floor and slinging him over his shoulder.

Ethan kept his eyes on the door long after his friend's limp form had left his line of sight, trying to make excuses to himself for what he was about to do. He had tried, he had tried _so hard_ , but he had failed. He'd failed his team, the IMF, the millions of innocent people around the world who would suffer once Lane had access to the money stored on the file. But most of all, he had failed Will, and that hurt more than anything.

In the end, he told Lane everything. He had to.

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 **This chapter was kinda bleak, wasn't it? Ethan and Will are gonna get some time alone next time, though. :) View-counter's still broken, by the way. I guess the only way I'll ever know how many people are reading this is if everyone leaves a review! ;)  
**


	5. Chapter 5

**The Last Game**

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 **Hey guys, sorry, I would have had this chapter up yesterday, but had other ideas ... hope you all enjoy!**

 **Thanks goes especially to Genbo, for the idea to have Will and Ethan be suspicious of each other. :)**

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Chapter Five

It took two hours for Lane to be satisfied that he had harvested every single scrap of information that Ethan possessed on the files, wrenched every last number from his stuttering lips, and licked the bones of his confession clean. Afterwards, exhausted and sick at heart, Ethan was at last freed from his chains (though not his cuffs) and removed to a tiny, dark room, little more than a broom closet. There he found Will curled up in the corner, seemingly asleep.

Thrust unexpectedly into a confined space with the man he had sacrificed his conscience for, Ethan could only stand still for a long minute, his eyes drinking in every detail of Will's tense body. The only light came from a street lamp outside, filtered through a double layer of opaque plastic taped across the window. In it, Will's skin took on an orange hue, his muscles clearly marked in shadow, knees tucked to his chest and arms locked around them in fetal position. His hair was spiked with sweat and probably needed a good wash. Ethan wondered if they'd bothered to feed him.

He took a hesitant step forward and realized that, contrary to his original belief, Will was very much awake. He wasn't moving, but his eyes were partially open, his blue irises nearly black in the strained dimness. He stared at Ethan, and Ethan stared back.

"Hey," he said lamely.

Will didn't reply. In fact, he gave no indication that he was even aware of Ethan's presence, except for that blank gaze. Ethan felt it eating into his very soul.

He tried again. "You okay?" Inwardly, a voice cried, _Of course he's not, you fucking fool! You saw what Lane was doing to him! Why would you expect him to be okay?_

"Brandt, I'm sorry," he said. "I meant this to be a slick rescue, but I fucked it up. I underestimated Lane. I've been underestimating him all along, actually, from the first time we met, when he caught me unawares in that record shop. This whole thing is my fault. I'm sorry."

Will said nothing. He might have moved his head the tiniest fraction up and down, perhaps in agreement, but Ethan couldn't be sure.

"Come on, Brandt," he begged. "Say something. Anything so I know you're all right. Come on. It's me, it's Ethan."

"Is it?" God, Will's voice sounded awful. Rough and dry, like he'd been screaming himself raw. But at least he was speaking.

"How do I know?" he continued. "This could just be … another trick … to get me to talk." His lip curled slightly. "The real Ethan … would never have given up those codes. … Not for me."

Ethan winced. "Brandt – _Will_ – you know that's not true. What, you want me to prove myself? Go ahead, ask me a question. Something only I would know."

"Alright." A strange expression passed over his face. "In Dubai … after I got out of that damned computer array … what did I say?"

Ethan swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. "How - uh, how about another one?"

" _No,"_ Will snapped with surprising vehemence. "Answer _this_ one. What did I say?"

"Will …"

"What did I _say_ , Ethan?"

Ethan squeezed his eyes shut, hating himself for giving in. "You said … 'next time, I get to se- … get to seduce the rich guy'."

Will nodded in perverse satisfaction. "Yes, that's right. Good job, Ethan."

A horrible suspicion crept across Ethan's mind. "Hang on," he said, "how do I know _you're_ Will? Lane fooled me once already with a mask. So it's your turn to answer a question."

"Fine."

He cast around for something suitable. The problem was, if Will had been compromised, there was no telling what he might have revealed to Lane. This would have to be clever.

"Okay," he said. "What's my middle name."

"David," replied Will, without hesitation.

Ethan smiled. It _was_ him. "Wrong. My middle name is Matthew."

Will looked shocked, the first sign of emotion he'd shown so far. "What? But you told me-"

"I lied."

"You lied about your middle name?"

"Yeah, I like David better."

Will frowned. "So … what was the point of asking me a question that I didn't know the correct answer to?"

"If you had known the correct answer," said Ethan, "then _I_ would have known it wasn't really you."

"Oh." There was a pause. Then, "You really shouldn't complain about having Matthew as a middle name, you know. It could be much worse."

"Oh yeah? What's yours?"

"Carmichael."

"Hm. William Carmichael Brandt. I like it. It sounds sophisticated."

"It sounds like I'm someone's grandpa," Will replied dryly.

Ethan couldn't help the huge grin that burst across his face. He took a step forward, but as soon as he moved, Will flinched. It wasn't very noticeable; in fact, someone who wasn't as attuned to the analyst as Ethan was might not even have spotted it, but to him, it stood out as clear as day and struck him like a fist to the gut.

 _Will was afraid of him._

"Hey, hey," he said, carefully, like he was speaking to a traumatized child. "I'm not gonna hurt you. Will, I won't hurt you."

Will shifted into a slightly more upright position, looking uncomfortable. "I know that. I just … don't want anyone touching me, that's all."

"Well, do you mind if I sit down at least?" Ethan asked. "God, I'm sore."

"Go ahead," Will replied. Once Ethan had awkwardly maneuvered to the ground, using the wall as a prop, he said, "Are _you_ alright? I know Vinter tortured you."

"I've had worse," Ethan said dismissively. It wasn't a lie, though not by much.

Will nodded. "So, how are we getting out of here?"

"That's up to Luther and Benji," said Ethan. "If we're lucky, we might get some help from Ilsa as well, but I wouldn't count on it."

"Huh. What a royally fucked-up situation."

He looked so dejected that Ethan longed to reach out and rest a hand on his arm, but he knew that would be a bad move. Instead, he opted for saying, "You do know that none of this was your fault, right? It could just as easily have been Benji or Luther taken. Or hell, even me."

"I wish it had been." As soon as the words – barely whispered – were out, a look of horror crossed Will's face. "No," he said, "I didn't mean that. I don't know why I said that, Ethan. I didn't mean it. Oh _God_ …"

"It's okay," Ethan said. He took a deep breath. "Will, if I could have taken your place … had it happen to me instead-"

"No! Ethan-"

"I would have."

"N-no."

"I'm serious, Will. You're the _last_ person on earth I would ever have wanted to be hurt that way. I don't think you realize …"

Will was staring uncomprehendingly at him. "I don't … I don't get what you're saying."

 _Perhaps this isn't the best time for personal confessions,_ said the voice of cold reason at the back of Ethan's mind, but he ignored it. His emotions were so tightly wired after the events of the last twenty-four hours that he couldn't have stopped now if he wanted to.

"I don't think you realize how much you mean to me, Will," he finished. "You seem to think you're just a throw-away member of the team, a replaceable asset or something-"

"I am," Will interrupted. "No, Ethan, listen. We _all_ are. That's the whole point of this job. Someone gets caught, what happens? Does the Secretary launch a balls-out rescue mission at all costs? No, no he doesn't. It's the nature of the work, and I accept that. Maybe it's time you do to."

Ethan was stunned; this was not at all the response he had expected. Though to be fair, he couldn't have said exactly what he _had_ expected. He hadn't really put too much thought into this whole confession bit.

"What do you mean?" he said. "You wish I hadn't come? You wanted me to just … _leave_ you here? Knowing what Lane was doing, what he would have continued to do?"

" _Yes,_ Ethan, that's exactly what you should have done!" Will snarled. "Look at me! I'm tainted goods! I'm never going to be of use to the IMF again. Not as a field agent, not even as a damn analyst. I'm sure you'll be getting my replacement soon. I hope he does better for you than I did."

Ethan's chest _hurt_ , a deep throbbing ache, and he felt a lump growing in his throat. He wasn't the sort of man who cried easily, but _damn it_ , Will was breaking his heart.

"Don't talk like that," he managed, his voice coming out all choked up. "The IMF might cast you aside, but _I_ won't. I didn't! Why the hell do you think I'm here if not for you?"

"I don't care why you're here. I don't care what your intentions were. This is exactly the same as our first mission together, when you gave those nuclear launch codes to Cobalt against my advice-"

"And that turned out fine."

"That's not the _point_ , Ethan! You can't just keep gambling with people's lives like that! And this time it's worse, it's much worse! I don't know what was on that file, but I _do_ know that it's going to cost lives. Why didn't you just _stay the fuck away_ and let me go?" He was shouting by this time, hands clenched into fists. Ethan hurriedly shushed him, afraid that the guards would return to investigate the disturbance.

"I couldn't," he said, once Will had calmed down a little. "I'm sorry. I just couldn't."

"Why?" Will demanded flatly.

Ethan sighed. "That's what I was trying to tell you when you started yelling at me. I couldn't leave you here because I …"

"Yes?"

His pulse was racing, breaths coming raggedly. "Because I lo-"

The door opened.

* * *

 **So, what do you think?**


	6. Chapter 6

**The Last Game**

* * *

 **I gotta say, this story is getting much for attention that I thought it would. Thanks for all the support! Trigger warning for some graphic violence in this chapter.**

* * *

Chapter Six

Solomon Lane stood framed in the open doorway, the florescent light making a halo around his head. _A fallen angel_ , Ethan thought, _Lucifer himself come to Earth._ He shook his head to clear it of the ridiculously out-of-place image. The stress of the situation must be getting to him.

"The numbers were good," Lane said. "I must say, Mr. Hunt, I expected you to lie even under duress, but it seems I underestimated the depths of your loyalty to Agent Brandt here. I commend you."

Ethan didn't dare turn to Will, unable to face the accusation in his gaze. Instead he stared hard at Lane, challenging him.

"I'm afraid I have no more use for either of you," said the Syndicate leader, "and you're far too dangerous to leave alive." He pulled a gun out of his pocket, and it struck Ethan how depressing of an end this was. He had always imagined that he would die fighting, going out in a blaze of glory, or else that he would slip away in his sleep as an old man, with his family around him. It seemed that neither was to be.

Lane cocked the gun and aimed it at his head. Many regrets should have flashed through Ethan's mind at that moment: thoughts of all the people he had failed to save, the friends he'd let down, the wife he would never return to. But right then, what stood out from the rest was that he hadn't finished his sentence. Will would die without knowing how much he was cared for.

In the split second before Lane pulled the trigger, a blurred shape flashed suddenly before Ethan's vision. Lane's arm jerked; the gun went off, the sound deafening in the tiny enclosed space. The bullet missed Ethan's head by inches, burrowing into the wall, showering his face and neck with chips of concrete. He blinked, disoriented, trying to make sense of the two figures struggling together.

Three gunshots in quick succession. One of the figures went suddenly still, body bent at the waist, hands still clenched over the handle of the pistol. He dropped to his knees.

Even before Will fell, Ethan was springing up, galvanized into action. As Will's arms went limp and he slumped to the ground, Ethan was leaping over him, grabbing the side of Lane's face, slamming his head against the door frame with all the force he could muster. Lane's glasses broke, the lenses shattering. He tried to raise the gun, but Ethan kneed him in the groin, then the stomach, kicking him repeatedly. His hands pummeled at any part of Lane that he could reach, knuckles splitting under the force of his own blows. He didn't stop, even when Lane's eyes went blank and the gun dropped from his nerveless fingers, he _couldn't_ stop.

More shots sounded from further down the hall, an automatic this time, _rat-a-tat-tat._ Ethan's frantic punches began to slow. He became aware that he was holding a manikin, a cheap imitation human being without life, made of plastic. His head swam as he surveyed the damage he'd done.

Lane's face was simply gone. His nose caved in, his cheekbones collapsed, eyes filled with shards of glass, mouth a bloody canyon. Utterly unrecognizable. Ethan dropped him and staggered back, tripping over Will's legs and falling on his ass. He counted the space between his heartbeats. His hands hurt. _Everything_ hurt.

A groan from Will brought him back to reality. He crawled over to his friend, scrubbing the worst of the blood from his hands on his shirt as he did. He didn't need to get Lane's blood all over Will.

With Will's shirt off, the wound was easy to see. Low on his stomach, below the ribs, just to the right of his navel. It was bleeding pretty heavily, though Will had it covered with his hands. He was conscious enough to do that, at least. His breath was coming in ragged bursts, his eyes wide with panic.

"Eth-" he gasped. "Ethan."

Ethan carefully rolled him onto his back, lifting Will's head and shoulders onto his lap, folding his arms over Will's bare chest. Emotionally, he was still trying to process the fact that he was alive only because of Will's swift thinking; that Will had taken a bullet for him.

"You stupid fool," he murmured, bending uncomfortably so that he could rest his forehead against Will's. His broken ribs protested sharply, but he ignored the pain.

"Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ ," he continued. "Why would you _do_ that?"

"Didn't really … mean to," spluttered Will. His lips were lined with red, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth as he spoke. "Wasn't … thinking … clearly."

"Obviously not. You gonna be okay? Not going to die on me, are you?" Will didn't answer right away, and Ethan tapped his chest. "Come on, Will, don't die on me. Not after all this."

"Lane?" His lips barely moved, but Ethan understood. He glanced over at the battered terrorist. Lane could still be alive, he supposed, but if he was, he wasn't in very good shape.

"No worries there," he said. "I got him good, Will. For you."

"Wanted to … do it … myself."

"Yeah, I know, buddy, but you went and got yourself shot. So tough shit." The casual harshness of his words was belied by the soft, soothing tone in which he said them.

He could see Will fading right in front of him, his beautiful blue eyes glazing over, his breathing growing fainter, his muscles slackening as strength deserted them. In desperation Ethan shook him, saying, "Wake up, Brandt! I mean it! This is your mission, soldier, and you sure as hell better accept it."

"Sorry … Eth' … think I'm gonna … hafta … pass on … this one …" Will's words were starting to run together as his tongue grew uncoordinated.

Footsteps sounded in the hall, growing closer. A single pair. Too lightweight to be Vinter's, but Ethan grabbed for the discarded gun all the same, accidentally jostling Will. He checked the cartridge: three bullets remaining. Enough to defend the two of them if it was necessary – and at this point, he'd willingly die if it meant that Will wouldn't have to endure anything else.

But it was Ilsa who appeared in the doorway, bleeding from a knife wound on his forearm but otherwise unscathed. She glanced from Ethan to Lane, and he saw her well-trained expression slip slightly. Distaste? Or was it relief? Perhaps, he thought, a little of both.

"You okay?" he asked her. The MI6 agent nodded curtly.

"I'm fine. Vinter's not. The others fled; I guess they're devotion to Lane was outshined by their sense of self-preservation." She jerked her head at Will. "Looks like he's in bad shape. We should get him to a hospital."

At that moment, there was a screech of tires from the street outside. Ilsa rushed to the window, tearing at the plastic. Peering out, her shoulders sagged in relief.

"It's your friends," she said. "Benji and the other guy who was at the airport."

"Luther," Ethan said. "Call out to them. Let them know we're here, but we need help. Tell them Will is … tell them it's urgent."

Ilsa dropped her gun and leaned out the window, waving her hands in the air to demonstrate that she wasn't a threat. "Hey, up here!" she shouted. "Don't shoot! I've got Ethan with me. Lane is neutralized, but we need an ambulance, right now!"

"Who's hurt?" Benji's anxious voice floated up from below. "Is it Ethan?"

"He could probably use a check-up, but Agent Brandt was shot," Ilsa replied. Ethan took a moment to admire how well she kept her head in an emergency. She really was a remarkable woman; he would have to see about recruiting her to the IMF once this was over. She'd make a good addition to their team, and he doubted that she'd have any interest in returning to MI6 after the stunt Adlee had pulled.

"Bring him down!" Benji was calling. "We'll drive him ourselves. St. Thomas' isn't very far from here. Hurry though, the police were only a few minutes behind us. Someone called in the gunfire."

Ilsa turned away from the window. "Can you carry him?" she asked Ethan, but he was already lifting Will up, cradling him as if he was a precious object made of glass. There was a sharp stab in his side from his busted ribs. He drew in a deep breath, preparing himself.

"Wait," Will croaked as he took the first step towards the door. The agent's hand was gesturing vaguely, and Ethan got the impression that he wanted something. He stopped.

"What is it, Will, we have to go."

"The gun … give me th' … gun …"

"Why?"

Impatient, he shot Ethan a glassy-eyed glare. "Jus' do it."

Ethan nodded to Ilsa, who pressed her firearm into Will's clumsy grasp. He lined up the barrel with Lane's body, and Ethan suddenly understood. It didn't matter to Will whether or not Lane was already dead, or even whether _he_ was going to die. In order to get closure, he had to have his revenge.

Will pulled the trigger, once. Even dying of blood loss, his aim was true. The bullet drilled into Lane's temple, snapping his disfigured head to the side. Ilsa caught the gun as Will dropped it, the ghost of a smile drifting over his face like a cloud across the sun.

"Thanks," he murmured, clear as day, and went limp in Ethan's arms.


	7. Chapter 7

The Last Game

Epilogue: Part One

* * *

 **Hey, guys! I fully realize that after all this time, none of you expected this story to ever pick up again, and I'm truly sorry for that. I just had NO idea where to take it next, and though I tried several times (honestly) I just couldn't just anything worthwhile out of it. But then yesterday I picked up a DVD copy of Rogue Nation and watched it again, and what do you know, I sat down and wrote this! I'll try to have the second part out in the next couple of days. Hope the wait was worth it! :)**

* * *

At four o'clock on Sundays, William Brandt left the sanctity of his shuttered apartment and walked three blocks to the local park, where he sat for an hour or so on a bench beneath the elms, and walked home again. He did this every Sunday, without fail, regardless of the weather. It was the only constant in the maelstrom that his life had become, the only fixed point in a week that he drifted through like a castaway on the open sea.

Today was sunny, with a few clouds on the horizon. The air, though warm, had a hint of fall in the briskness of the breeze. Soon the leaves would begin to turn vibrant colors, bathing the world in sunset beauty for a few brief weeks. Children would return to school, their parents would start preparing for the holidays. And he would sit, alone, on this bench, and watch the world pass him by.

This solitude was imposed on himself, by himself, and was a source of pain and worry to his friends. In the first few days after his release from the hospital, and his subsequent return to the states, he received many visitors – among them the broken remains of his former teammates, the men he called friends. Luther had been stoic and silently sympathetic: a blessing. Benji, not so much. The techie's visits were full of awkward silences and cringe-worthy attempts to act normal. It was obvious that Benji _knew_ , and didn't want to say that he knew. He asked leading questions, trying to draw Will out of his shell, told jokes that fell flat, his laughter petering out in a room that might as well have been empty.

But Ethan was the worst. He came a lot at first, far more than the others. It seemed as though he wanted to spend every waking moment at Will's side. And while Will could stand Luther's pity, and even Benji's embarrassed ramblings, he could _not_ stand the guilt that dwelt in the dark pools of Ethan's eyes. To see his once-proud shoulders slumped in defeat, his smiling mouth grim and twisted. That hurt more than anything, that Ethan was a ruined man, and it was Will who had crippled him.

It would have been bad enough if Will had seen Ethan only as a leader, or even as a friend, but it was made all the more unbearable by the fluttering desire that lurked deep in his chest, the ache he didn't dare give a name to. He'd always had a … a _thing_ for Ethan, from the moment he had first seen his picture at the top of his file. He'd remorselessly quashed any hint of his infatuation after the terrible incident in Croatia. It was inappropriate enough to have a crush on your superior (who wasn't even attracted to men), but it was just disgusting when you were directly responsible for the death of said superior's wife.

Then came Dubai, and in the aftermath, with a welcoming Ethan offering anodyne to Will's wounded soul, the spark of his feelings flared to life once again. He'd been prepared to accept a platonic relationship, as long as he got to enjoy Ethan's company.

But of course, he could never be so lucky.

It got to the point where when he saw Ethan's face on the other side of the peephole in his door, he wouldn't open it. If the other man's name appeared on his caller ID, he'd walk away. Texts and e-mails, increasingly aggressive, went unanswered. Ethan resorted to bribing or bullying his friends into passing along messages. Will stopped seeing them too. Eventually the flood dried to a trickle, as it gradually sunk in that his presence was not a welcome one. Will had the peace that he had so desperately craved.

Except … he didn't. He had quit the IMF, quit everything really – all his hobbies and passions, his relationships with people in the outside world – but the ghost of Solomon Lane was his constant companion. It was worse at night. If he slept at all, he woke screaming. He went to the doctor, and was prescribed a host of pills, and spent his evenings in a medicated stupor.

Will checked his watch. Ten to five … a bit early for him to head home, but what the hell. Grimacing, he had begun the laborious process of getting to his feet when a shadow fell across him. He looked up.

"Hey," said Ethan.

Will worked a dry throat, trying to find the words stolen by surprise and discomfort. He came out with a slightly strangled, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"It's a public park, isn't it?" Ethan replied, shrugging. "Last I checked, there was no law against taking a stroll."

"Very funny," snapped Will. "You knew I'd be here. How?"

"You're always here at this time."

"How do you know _that_? Wait a minute, have you been following me?" The slight pause that trailed after the question confirmed it. "What the _fuck_ , Ethan?"

"Can I sit down?"

Childishly, Will lifted his legs up onto the bench, leaning on one elbow and stretching out so that he was taking up the entire space. Ethan rolled his eyes and sat on the grass instead. He was dressed rather flamboyantly in white slacks, sandals, and a Hawaiian shirt that would have made any other man look like an idiot tourist. Expensive shades completed the picture. His hair had grown out a bit; swept back from his forehead, it was gathered in a neat ponytail at the nape of his neck. Will imagined that it would brush his shoulders if it was loose. Light stubble coated his jaw.

"You look good," Will said, the words escaping before he was even conscious of thinking them. He clenched his jaw.

"You don't," said Ethan, bluntly. "You look like shit. When's the last time you slept, _without_ doping up?"

Will knew he wasn't obligated to answer, or even to have this conversation, but he lifted his shoulders and let them fall again.

"How's Luther and Benji?" he asked, feeling as always the slight prickle of shame at the thought of his old friends.

"Why don't you ask them yourself?" said Ethan. Will started, glancing around in paranoia, half-expecting them to pop out of the bushes and assault him with cheery smiles. There was no one in sight but a jogging couple and an old man walking his dog.

"They miss you, Brandt," Ethan said quietly. "We all do."

Will choked, tears of anger and hurt welling in his eyes. "Jesus, Ethan, I-" He stopped, resting a trembling hand on his forehead. "You think it's been … I didn't want to … Christ, I can't _speak!"_

"Alright, calm down." Ethan held up a hand. "Look, I wasn't trying to put you on the spot, Will. We all know what you've been through, and-"

"That's exactly it, Ethan, you _know_! And you all feel so sorry for me, don't you? Poor Will, how _traumatizing_ it must have been! God _damn_ it!" He was close to a meltdown, he could feel it coming, the pressure building in his chest, behind his eyes. There was a faint ringing in his ears, a blurriness encroaching on his vision. He had to calm down before he fainted, and really made a spectacle of himself.

 _Breathe deeply, Will. In … out … in … out … that's it, that'a'boy. You're alright._

It wasn't until his heartbeat steadied that he realized the voice was not coming from inside his head. Ethan was speaking to him in a gentle murmur, his face only inches from Will's own.

 _Close enough to kiss._

Oh, god.

Will jerked his head back, cheeks burning crimson. Ethan's eyes, which only moments before had been soft and caring, darkened in – what? Disappointment? Irritation? He couldn't tell. In some corner of his brain, he regretting losing that look from Ethan, but the primary emotion dominating him right now was panic. He had to get away, before this situation went from fucked to totally, abysmally, _world-endingly_ fucked.

"Brandt-" Ethan began, but he was interrupted by Will lurching from his seat on the bench, shoving rudely past him, and striding away as quickly as his feet would carry him (which was not actually very fast, especially for a man who starred on his high school track team. But a bullet to the gut will slow you down, if it doesn't stop you in your tracks permanently.)

"Will!" Feet pounding after him. When he estimated that Ethan was close to catching him, he swung around, lashing out with a swift right hook. His fist caught a surprised Hunt in the chest, knocking him back a pace.

"Why can't you fucking leave me alone?" Will snarled, all the agony of the past months boiling over, out of his control.

"Is that what you really want?" Ethan asked, betrayed by a slight tremor in his tone.

"Yes," said Will.

The stricken look on Ethan's face was like a knife twisting in his heart, but he couldn't take the words back, and he wasn't sure he would even if he'd had the power. Ethan wasn't his to want, and never would be, and hanging onto the sad ghost of his feelings would only hurt him more in the end. It was better to get it out of the way, like a surgeon removing a limb too damaged to continue serving its purpose. There would always be an Ethan-sized hole in his life, but the only way he could live with it was if he didn't have daily reminders of what fate had denied him.

And so he turned and walked away from the only person who made his life worth living, and the only person whose presence was too painful to endure.


	8. Chapter 8

The Last Game

Epilogue Part Two

* * *

 **Wow, I was so amazed by the response to the latest chapter, and so grateful! You guys don't know how great it felt to be welcomed back, and to know that there's still people out there interested in this little piece. Thank you all! I would have responded personally to every reviewer, but I've spent all my energy in the last couple of days in finishing up this chapter, which will be the last. There is a trigger warning for discussion of suicide and other dark topics.**

 **Hope you all enjoy! :)**

* * *

Will stared down at the white pills cradled in the palm of his hand with eyes that were stinging and bloodshot from hours of helpless crying. His nose was stuffy and his head throbbed, and all he wanted was for the day to be over. _Fucking Ethan._ Why did he have to be such a busy-body? Why couldn't Will have fallen for a normal god-damn human being?

His gaze tacked blearily over to the prescription bottle sitting beside his sink, and a dark thought rose in his brain, like a bloated corpse floating up from beneath the waters of a lake: take them all, and the pain would never come back. Remembering the look in Ethan's eyes as Will shouted at him, death was starting to look better and better by the minute.

He hesitated, unable to take his eyes off the bottle now that the possibility had presented itself. His hand shook, and he didn't quite understand why. It wasn't as though he had never considered suicide before – hell, more than considered, he'd actually tried it. In his final year of high school, overworked, under pressure, and trying to cope with the revelation of his sexuality and the massive disapproval of his parents and community, he had slipped a rope around his neck and hung himself from the ceiling fan of his room. Fortunately, the craftsmanship of the fan was sub-par; it broke, and rather than strangling himself, all Will got was a concussion from hitting his head on the corner of his desk. His father, finding him bleeding and confused, coaxed the story out of him and suggested an alternative to ending his own life: service in the military. Will never looked back.

For a while, life was good. In the military, and subsequently the IMF, he found friends, comrades, siblings, people who accepted him for who he was. He didn't spread the word around that he was gay, but he didn't hide it if asked, either. Jane had known (it was impossible to keep anything from her, really) and had nearly driven him insane trying to set him with guys she knew. He never confided in her about Ethan, and now he wasn't sure if he regretted that or not. It would have been nice if _one_ other person on earth had known the truth that he was going to take to his grave.

After Croatia, however, all his hard-won confidence and self-esteem had just gone flying right out the window. He had become a nervous wreck, unsuitable for anything but sitting behind a desk, pushing papers. If it hadn't been for the Secretary picking him up – adopting him, practically – Will's career would have been flushed down the toilet faster than Ethan on a motorcycle.

Ethan. It all came back to him. Sometimes Will thought that Ethan was the whole reason he had been born in the first place. The man was like a beacon: brighter and more charismatic than anyone else he'd ever met. The lyrics from _James Dean_ by the Eagles flashed through his mind – ' _Too fast to live, too young to die'._ That was Ethan in a nutshell.

Once Will was gone, the burden of guilt on Ethan's shoulders would be lifted. Sure, he would hurt for a while. Failure always rankled for Ethan, and Will was a living representation of failure. But he'd get over it, and remember how to smile again, and Will wouldn't have to endure the purgatory of loving him anymore.

He reached for the pill bottle, but as he raised it to his mouth, there was a crashing sound from downstairs, as though something large and heavy had been thrown through a window. Instantly alert, Will dropped the pills in the sink and ran out into the bedroom to grab his gun and flashlight from the sock drawer. Flicking the safety off, he moved in a noiseless crouch towards the landing, casting the beam of light two and fro. All thoughts of his own demise had been drowned out by the adrenaline pulsing through his veins.

There was a human-sized shadow at the bottom of the stairs. The intruder didn't appear to be moving, but Will wasn't taking any chances. Shining the flashlight directly into the figure's face, he snapped, "Freeze, asshole. Hands in the air. I _will_ shoot you."

But the white glow revealed no burglar, no assassin – only Ethan Hunt, screwing up his eyes against the glare. Will dropped his arms, all the fight going out of him in a rush of relief and confusion.

"I could have killed you, you know," he said. "You're lucky I'm not the shoot-first-ask-questions-later type."

Ethan said nothing. Will turned on the light in the hallway and stood leaning against the wall.

"Want to explain?" he asked, and then, "Hey, whoa, what the fuck? Ethan!" For Ethan was pulling out his smartphone, dialing a familiar combination of three numbers.

"I need an ambulance!" he shouted into the speaker. "Hurry! The address is-"

Outraged, Will marched down the stairs and snatched the phone away from him. "Cancel that," he said. "Everything's fine here. My friend is really drunk and thought this would be a good prank. Sorry. I've got the situation in hand now." A wild glare at Ethan prevented him from reclaiming his phone.

Once the 911 operator was satisfied that there really was no emergency, Will hung up, keeping hold of Ethan's phone just in case. Crossing his arms, he fixed his friend with a firm stare and said, "So?"

"How many did you take?" Ethan's voice was strained.

Will frowned. "How many what?"

"Pills, you idiot. How many?"

"As a matter of fact," said Will, "I didn't get to take _any_ , thanks to a home invasion by a certain jackass who will go unnamed."

"Oh thank God!" Ethan breathed. Will, focused on the crisis as he was, hadn't noticed until now how awful Ethan looked: pale-faced, trembling, as though he'd just received the fright of his life.

Making an abrupt decision, he said, "Want something to drink? Tea?" Ethan nodded gratefully, and he said, "Come on, then," and headed for the kitchen.

Several minutes later, they were facing each other across the island, both with a steaming mug in hand. Will said, "This has got to be one of the strangest evenings I've ever had. Seriously, Ethan, you owe me an explanation. Right now."

Ethan took a big slurp of his tea, grimacing as the hot liquid scorched his tongue. His gaze darted around the room, lighting in turn on the microwave, the pristine stovetop (Will almost never cooked in his own home, preferring to order takeout), the fridge free of any personal touches such as photos or magnets, the bowl of fruit and granola bars, and back to the microwave again. In other words, he was looking everywhere _but_ at Will, which was very unusual. Ethan was not the sort of man who had difficulty with eye contact.

"I'm sorry, Will," he said at last, sounding defeated. "I'm really, really sorry."

Somehow, Will got the idea that this apology covered more than just the break-in. He shrugged and said, "What for?"

"Everything," said Ethan, confirming his guess. "I know you've never forgiven me for letting you believe Julia was dead. Hell, I don't deserve your forgiveness – for that, or anything. I used you, Will, and I'm sorry. _God,_ you don't know how sorry I am." He scrubbed at his face with a weary hand.

"It's all in the past now," Will said. "I've moved on." It was a lie, of course, but what was he supposed to say? _'Yeah, Ethan, you fucked up, and it still keeps me up at night? I was a nervous wreck for years, thanks to you, but I'm such a sad sap that I'm crazy about you anyway?'_ That would go over well.

For just a moment, Ethan's eyes darted up to meet his, and the glimpse of raw emotion that Will saw there nearly took his breath away. This was not the Hunt that he knew: the team leader, the thrill seeker, the man whose smile was like the sun coming out.

"I get why you did it," he said. "You had to keep her safe, and I was just collateral damage. I know it wasn't personal, Ethan." Unspoken, he added, _If you were anyone else, I wouldn't care._

"God damnit, Will, you are _not_ just 'collateral damage' to me!" Ethan exclaimed.

"Maybe not now," Will admitted, "but at the time, I was. And that's the way it should be. She's your wife, and I was just some random agent. For the last time, I don't hold it against you. I just … damn, I just wish you had told me, that's all. I know why you didn't, but I wish you'd been able to trust me. I would have died to keep your secret."

" _Was_ ," was all Ethan said, with emphasis, like it meant something.

"Pardon?" said Will.

"She _was_ my wife," he clarified.

"You mean …"

"We're divorced. It was for both our sakes, and we parted on good terms. I married her because I wanted a normal life, but I just wasn't cut out for normalcy. It wasn't fair on her, having a husband who was never home, who could die at any time in some far-off corner of the world. A husband who couldn't even acknowledge her existence for fear that someone would try to snuff it out."

Will felt as though his whole world was turning upside down, and something dangerously like hope began to flower in his chest. "You're … not married anymore."

Ethan shook his head. "Nope. Haven't been for about a year now. Right before the IMF breakup, actually."

"Well," mumbled Will, at a total loss for words. "Okay, then." The selfish side of him couldn't help but feel glad about it. At least now he could fantasize about a life with Ethan without the added discomfort of excising his wife from the mental picture.

"Yup," said Ethan. He appeared to be just as tongue-tied.

They stood in silence for a few moments before Will said, "So, is that it for you? Relationship-wise, I mean?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he could have slapped himself.

Ethan looked surprised, but all he said was, "I think I could give it another go – if it was the right person."

Will nodded. There was nothing to say. He had no idea who the 'right person' was in Ethan's mind, but it sure as hell wasn't him, train-wreck of a human being that he was.

Ethan said, "Listen, Will – about today … I was out of line. I shouldn't have approached you like that. It wasn't fair."

"It's okay," Will muttered. "I regret the way I acted as well. It's just … you have no idea how … how hard it is …" He stopped himself before he could open the floodgates and let everything out.

"I do, Will, I get it!" Ethan's expression was earnest and eager – not a joyful kind of eagerness, but a fierce desperate kind, like he was yearning for something essential. The fire in Will's breast burned a little hotter.

"You get it?" he repeated. "How could you possibly understand how I feel?" He hadn't intended the words to come out so cutting. Ethan's face fell, and Will felt as though he had slapped a child. He sighed, feeling as worn out as Ethan looked.

"How did you know about the pills?" he asked. "And don't lie and say that it was luck or something. If you hadn't come barging in just then, I'd probably be dead by now."

Ethan groaned. "So you _were_ going to … Will, why didn't you call me? Or if not me, than Benji, Luther – God, _anyone_!"

Will almost said, _'I didn't call you because you're the reason I'm feeling suicidal, dumbass!'_ He shook his head. "I don't know, Ethan, I wasn't thinking straight. I've been in a really dark place lately, mentally."

"I know," said Ethan. When Will stared at him with raised eyebrows, he said, "I put bugs in your house. Cameras, microphones. They link up to my phone. Don't worry, no one else has access to them, but-"

"That's not the fucking point!" Will exploded, slamming down his cup of tea so hard that the handle cracked off. "You can't just violate my privacy like that, Ethan! For God's sake, what … when … _why would you do that?"_

"I broke in a few days after you stopped answering my calls. I know it was wrong, but I was so worried about you, and I had no other way of making sure you were okay. I'll, uh … I'll remove them, if you want."

" _Yes,_ fucking Christ …"

"On one condition, though. You have to promise me that if you're ever feeling suicidal again, you'll call someone for help. I don't care who it is as long as it's someone you can trust. Okay?"

"Yeah, sure. Fine, Ethan. If it means that much to you-"

"It does." The old glint of defiance was back in Ethan's eye; the same glint he'd had when he told Benji to reprogram the case containing the missile launch codes, or when he'd left them all behind to go haring after Ilsa on a high speed chase. Will was quite familiar with it, and knew that it meant nothing but trouble.

"Then … thanks, I guess," he said. "For caring. Even if you do show it in the weirdest ways."

"How would you rather I show it?"

Will blinked. To his embarrassment, a faint heat rose in his cheeks. He hoped it wasn't visible in the dim lighting. Was it his imagination, or was there something suggestive about the way Ethan was looking at him now?

"I don't know," he said cautiously. "How about not bugging my house, for starters?"

Ethan had the good grace to look ashamed. "Yeah, I guess I went a little too far. But Will, you have to understand – if anything happened to you, I don't know what I'd do."

There was a roaring noise in Will's ears, as though a hurricane-force wind had suddenly decided to sweep through his kitchen. His vision swam, darkened; for a moment, he was back in a cramped, lightless room in London with Ethan crouched by his side. _"You're the last person on earth I would ever have wanted to be hurt that way."_ He hadn't understood the meaning of it at the time.

Strong hands gripping his shoulders, pulling him back to the present. Ethan's worried gaze locked on his. "Will? What's wrong? You're shaking. Are you okay?"

He tried to speak, but the words came out breathy and disjointed. "Sorry, just … happens sometimes … flashback and all that … my doc says I have PTSD. From, you know … from Lane." Even saying the name caused a surge of bile in his throat, and he shuddered.

Ethan said, "It's okay, Will, you don't have to talk about it."

"Yes, I do, because if I don't, I'll just be stuck here in limbo forever. Ethan, you deserve to know … the reason I kept away from you was because I couldn't stand that you had seen me like that."

"Will … if you think I'm _judging_ you …"

"No," Will said, "but you can't deny that something has changed. You don't look at me the same way you used to before …" He trailed off. His psychiatrist had tried to coach him on something called 'labeling' – calling it 'the rape' rather than using euphemisms like 'the assault' or his favorite, 'London'. Will could almost hear her now: _"It's okay to call it what it was, William. Keeping it hidden will only give it power over you."_

Ethan was looking dismayed. "That has nothing to do with what Lane did to you, Will!" he protested. "God, I had no idea you thought that!"

"Well, what am I supposed to think?" he muttered. "You used to treat me like just another member of the team, no different from Benji or Luther – or hell, even Jane for that matter. Then London happens, and suddenly you're putting cameras in my house and acting like I'm made of glass! What gives, Ethan?"

"It's not about you, it's about me." Will snorted, and he said, with a touch of defensiveness, "Yeah, I know, oldest saying in the book, right? But I mean it, Will. I realized some things about myself after London, and it kind of changed the way I felt – feel, that is – regarding our relationship."

His hands were still resting on Will's shoulders, and his fingers were gently working the muscles there, squeezing and relaxing in a way that Ethan himself didn't seem to be aware of. Will took a deep breath.

"Does this have anything to do with what you were going to tell me back then, but never did? When I asked why you couldn't leave me with Lane?"

"It has everything to do with that," said Ethan. "Will, I … I'm in love with you."

Will stared blankly at him. "Ethan, if this is a joke-"

"No joke. I love you. I have for a long time, but it took the IMF disbanding to make me figure it out. I was gonna tell you when we met back up again, but there wasn't time to do it right, with the pressure we were under … and then Lane took you, and I … I just lost it, Will. I couldn't accept that I had failed to save you in time."

"Now you know how I felt after your wife died. After I thought she died."

"Yeah," said Ethan. "But that wasn't your fault."

"And what happened to me wasn't your fault, either. No, _listen to me_ , Ethan. Remember when you told me that it could just as easily have been Benji who was taken, or you? Well, you were right. I wasn't chosen for any other reason than that I was convenient. Or hell, maybe the twisted fuck picked me in particular, but either way, there was nothing you could have done to prevent it. Nothing, you hear me?"

Ethan was looking at him in amazement. He said, "You're so sweet, Will. You've been through hell, and here you're trying to make _me_ feel better about it."

Will blushed, looking away. "Yeah, well. Can't have been easy on you, either. Especially when I cut you off like that. I'm sorry. I didn't know … I would never have guessed you felt that way about me, of all people! I mean, Christ, you were married! To a woman, I might add! Was that a … a cover or something?"

"No," said Ethan. "I've never had a problem with homosexuality – I was raised by very open-minded parents – but I always thought I was straight. I might still be, actually; I'm not sure. I've never felt attracted to a man before, but you …"

Will chuckled weakly. "I've heard a lot of pick-up lines in my time, Ethan, but 'you're so hot you've turned me gay' is a new one for me."

Ethan was blushing now too, and the crimson color blended beautifully with his tanned skin. He leaned forward a little, like he was thinking of swooping in for a kiss, but then he backed away again, hesitancy written all over his bold, handsome features.

"Is this okay?" he asked. "I have no fucking clue what I'm doing, to be honest. After all you've been through, the _last_ thing I want to do is hurt you or make you feel uncomfortable."

"You've been honest with me," said Will, "so I'll return the favor. This won't be easy. I'm still pretty fucked up. Uh … I'd rather not go into detail, but … let's just say that I haven't had sex in a while and it might be a long time before I'm ready to. So if you just want to experiment with something new and different, forget it. I'm not your guy. But-" He held up a hand to forestall Ethan's wounded protest. "-if you were serious when you said you're in love, then … I'd be willing to give it a shot. I've uh, had a thing for you for a while now, so … it's not like I've never thought about it. Just … let's take it slow, okay?"

"Okay," Ethan agreed. He smiled, and it was so infectious that Will couldn't help but smile back. They stood there grinning at each other like idiots for a couple of minutes, until their moment of bliss was rudely cut short by the wail of sirens coming down the street. It turned out that Will's neighbor had heard the breaking window and helpfully called the cops.

Fortunately, the evening did not end in Ethan being dragged off to jail, though he did promise to contact the repairman first thing in the morning. It was well past midnight by this time, and Will's long day was catching up with him in the form of an inability to keep his eyes open any longer. Ethan steered him over to the couch and turned the TV on with muted volume. Will fell asleep that night with his head pillowed on Ethan's lap, Ethan's fingers combing through his hair, his belly occasionally shaking with laughter at whatever show he was watching.

Will had never been happier in his life.

* * *

 **So, what do you guys think? ;) I know I had to stretch credibility on a few points, but hey, that's what fiction is all about, right? Thank you all so much for reading! :D  
**


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